


Constantly on the cusp

by TotemundTabu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 02:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5316467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/pseuds/TotemundTabu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FRUS | FRANCE/AMERICA | NC17 | SEX AHEAD - “It’s not like you to be so shy, France.” “Francis, in here. – he corrected him, then added a mocking chuckle – So, what are you doing in such a place?” “Fine, if you want to play, then I’ll be Alfred.  – he sat next to him – Nothing special, kinda wanted to avoid the others, they were annoying me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Constantly on the cusp

To Mija, I guess, but also to myself for how stupid it may sound. FRUS. NC17 | SMUT | VM18 .

* * *

 

**Constantly on the cusp**

* * *

 

_You spurn my natural emotions._

_You make me feel I'm dirt..._

_and I'm hurt._

_And if I start a commotion,_

_I run the risk of losing you_

_and that's worse._

The Buzzcocks - Ever Fallen In Love With Someone (You Shouldn't've Fallen In Love With)?

* * *

 

Cornered up in a bar, exiled from his own heart, he landed on a wooden stool, with the last cigarette of a second packet between his lips and an empty rocks glass pending from his fingers. In his nostrils still lingered the smell of cheap alcohol, on his lips a song he didn’t dare to remember.

Around him, the pub seemed to shine dimly in the gloomiest shades of amber, inhabited by thin, oblong, homeless shadows.

He felt that bitter flavor coming back.

It had been tormenting him since days, kept rising up in his throat, like tides of sadness. And it gave him no peace, not even when he went to sleep, not even when he filled his mouth with wine and rum until the sweetness would became nauseating.

He felt his thoughts blurred and heavy, like wet rags over his brain.

Truth being, things were never as easy as he would have liked them to be. There was always the other side, the secondary door opening on the same matter.

He was often denying thoughts and emotions he didn’t want to have, not due to some kind of repulse towards them or to be in control – even though control gave him slight shivers of ecstasy – but because, he knew, it was not the road to what he wanted.

What he wanted, though, was unreachable.

It was beyond him.

So he decided to aim for something else, at least officially, and never make it known to others but especially to himself how much the loss of something he never owned affected him.

He looked at the cigarette packet, now filled just with leftovers of scent, and bit his inner cheek.

“Hey. – he called the barman – Another one.”

“Of what?” he asked, looking at the cigarette packet and at the empty glass.

“Both.”

“You still haven’t lost the habit of smoking.”

He turned, slowly, uninterested, perfectly aware of who was speaking to him.

“You haven’t stopped prying either.”

“It’s not like you to be so shy, France.”

“ _Francis_ , in here. – he corrected him, then added a mocking chuckle – So, what are you doing in such a place?”

“Fine, if you want to play, then I’ll be Alfred. – he sat next to him – Nothing special, kinda wanted to avoid the others, they were annoying me.”

Francis chuckled; his voice was lower and hoarser than usual.

The barman gave him another glass of liquor and a third packet of cigarettes, then turned to Alfred, who promptly asked, “A beer?”

“Which kind?”

“…a beer?”

The man turned, cursing in a weird language Alfred couldn’t really identify.

He turned to Francis, “They were all trying to convince me about stuff I don’t care about. – he stretched his arms in front of him, while entwining his fingers, like he had just woken up – It was such a bore!”

Francis chuckled slowly, “Children get bored easily. – he lit a cigarette and sucked its end – I suppose that’s what comes with great power, though, you should feel glad.”

“It jerks off my ego, but I’m not that much of an attention-whore to not get tired of it. I can’t fake I care, you perfectly know.”

“Your brother is the only one who I know lies worse than you.”

The reference to England made his chest clench in pain.

A cold grasp held his ribs and the mouth of his stomach, until Alfred decided to send it away, not to let his thoughts coagulate over the wound.

He forced himself to grin, “Oh well, he is pathetic in many ways.”

“Aren’t we all?” Francis commented, smiling slightly with a sad look staining his eyes.

Alfred gave him a sly look.

“You look so bummed-out, it’s kinda annoying.”

“ _Pardonnez-moi_ … - he smirked, putting a flirty accent on every word – _J’ai pas de filtre émotionnel quand je suis fatigué_.”

“What?”

Francis finished his drink in a big gulp.

His naughty smirk was back and so the sensual shine in his eyes. He lingered a bit on an elbow, as if he felt really fascinated by Alfred.

“Tell me more about how much you find everyone except yourself extremely uninteresting.”

Alfred grinned, enjoying the tease, “You mean like you do?”

“ _Touché_. – he moved his hair a bit, staring around the bar – You know, I like being happy. I like smiling and trying to see the world as a bright colorful garden blossoming. But sometimes I find myself deeply bothered by my own attitude of believing in love and joy at all cost, because, here I am, after centuries, and some things are always the same.”

“Feeling alone?”

“Maybe.” his eyelids fluttered and a burden sunk into Alfred's stomach.

Alfred.

Right, he told himself, that night they could have been that: Alfred and Francis. No United States of America, no France, no duties, no roles, no chains.

Just the two of them in a bar, two castaways thrown into a small, grim, bar painted in the colour of brandy from the low, yellow swarm of artificial lights. The thick smell of smoke, in fading curls, filled the room.

He hated smoke.

He was not sure why, it was just the sensation of somebody willingly hurting their own health, like a waste of chances, but he clearly remembered that some decades before he still... he liked it. He stared at the cigarette pending from Francis' lips, mesmerized, tempted.

Those dark pink lips, soft and full, were full of promises, like water in the desert.

No, not water.

Like honey, like Marsala wine.

Like dense pleasure he could have chocked on out of greed.

Greed, lust: those were not his usual sins. He was more of a proud person, as his brother taught him wisely, after all, which is good, because of pride you might die alone but never in front of a mocking audience.

But greed... that's different, that's drives you desperate and beyond recognition or bonds of dignity.

His throat felt dry, his veins desiccated and empty. He felt just his eyes, eager and hungry, and his loins, asking to let it happen that time.

Alfred shrugged the thoughts away from himself, a grin rose on his mouth.

“Don't you have a lover to go to?”

Francis glared.

Oh, he was pissed. Nice.

“Believe it or not, I am not a nymphomaniac.”

“Do you always use difficult words when being passive-aggressive?”

“I was not informed it to be a difficult word.”

Alfred pouted, “Rude.”

Francis sighed and started sipping his drink again. Alfred felt his heart drumming in his chest, so deeply his lungs trembled, so darkly he felt a cave filled by the echo of his own anxiety.

He drank more beer, trying to swallow his own doubts together with it.

“I didn't mean to offend. You just seem the type that always has somebody ready.”

“Exactly what idea do you have of me...” Francis chuckled angrily.

Alfred swallowed, then looked at the barman, “Another beer, please”.

Francis' eyes glided, his look lapsed and burnt out on Alfred. On those lips, so tender, on those hands, so soft.

He craved a touch. A friendly one.

But how to ask, with which sort of brazen cheek dare to try? What he wanted, after all, was more than the usual, desperate or bored business sex.

And he had the nerve to let his heart sigh a wish, for a moment... a foolish, ridiculous wish, for a night and one alone.

He would have liked to be something else, somebody else: human, because they... they are allowed to love. For one night, for once. At last.

“Aren't you underage in your country? - he mocked – You shouldn't drink, _petit_.”

“You always say so. - he pointed out, smiling a bit about it – But today I am not America, you are not France, we have no duty towards each other. So … - he made a pause, his voice came out more bitter - … you don't have to do it.”

“I don't usually do it just because I have to.” the french one mumbled back, tasting his cigarette.

“No? - Alfred almost scoffed – Isn't it because of your big brother image?”

Francis sighed, breathing in the human warmth of the room, burdened by sweat and noise, and then he let out the smoke from his mouth.

“You find it laughable, don't you?”

“A tad bit.”

“How blunt.” he complained, but he liked it.

He loved how harsh Alfred could be, like sandpaper directly on the heart.

It was almost a delight to suffer that way.

Francis chuckled, his smirk getting more and more flirty. As he drank more, his voice seemed to get lower and lower: dark, dense, liquorous.

Alfred felt a tide of greed clenching his stomach.

Francis had full lips, inviting, that looked like they were made to court the inner thighs and wraps their fruit inside his mouth. Alfred could feel a steady, persistent, shiver, almost electric, down his spine, shaking him and burning through his bones, mercilessly.

Francis smiled more, showing a bit of his teeth: a bit yellow from the smoke, but strong, beautiful -the American could picture them voraciously biting his neck and shoulders, like they were no more than two animals in a jungle of sheets.

He desired that body, he needed it.

But not only that, no, much more.

His voice left him trembling, shaken much deeper than the skin, with the sensation of having been touched by something so fleeting and ethereal that... oh, how could he even think of keeping it? Of cherishing it’s taste in his flesh? Voices go away, they wash and run over your skin, leave you breathless and then you can barely remember them in detail.

Alfred could see now that he needed Francis inside him, like wine, like blood, until the point in which he could have felt him enough and then remembered him. Remembered him for all the rest of time.

One night, just one, it would have been enough for avoiding any regret.

“You are too much of an only child to understand, I suppose.” Francis commented, his throat dried by masked desire.

“... I have a brother, remember?”

“He was more of a dad, though... - he sipped a glass more, his hands held the glass from above and shook it lightly, letting the liquor stir with the ice – Growing up surrounded by others is different.”

“How is it?”

“You end up cherishing the moments just for yourself, I guess. - he smiled, almost melancholic – You search for a different kind of pleasure, you can't... you don't really like being alone... it's haunting.”

He speaks rolling his letters and letting them melt into the misty amber air of the bar.

Alfred would have liked to hurt him too, just to get impressed and carved into him, so that forgetting him would have been impossible.

“Is this why you sleep around?”

Francis turns to him, puzzled, “I beg your pardon?”

His gobsmacked face just made Alfred feel more powerful and power was a drug he proved many times to be very weak to.

“Is this why you surround yourself with lovers?”

Francis felt the sting. An uncomfortable anger started rising in his veins like waves.

“ _Pour ton information, c'est seulement parce que je suis magnifique dans la chambre_.”

“What does that...?”

Alfred got interrupted. Abruptly, yet not brutally.

Francis' mouth caught his in a kiss: the soft lips enveloped his own, caressing them sweetly and moving slowly, while his hand caressed the hair on Alfred's nape and pulled him closer. Alfred let himself drown a bit in the tender warmth of Francis' mouth, letting the pleasure linger on the brink of their lips as long as possible.

On that edge, suspended, their souls were the closest and the scariest.

Francis pulled Alfreds face closer and, this time, forced his tongue into his mouth. The younger panted and gave a wet, chocked moan, while welcoming Francis inside him.

The French man's tongue was big and warm, in his mouth it felt invasive yet extremely good.

Alfred clung to him, putting his hands around his neck.

He started moving his tongue too, following the movements of Francis' one, caressing it, letting their saliva and warmth melt in one cosmic jam of stupid desires.

Alfred could feel his heartbeat drumming in his ears: dim and din.

He separated from it like a man emerging again from dark waters, without notion of time, grasping the air until it's painful for the lungs, yet, charmed to no end and craving more.

“You should breathe with your nose.” Francis smirked.

Alfred hated that side of Francis; he made him feel like a stupid child. He made him feel pathetic with his heart-felt efforts and his craving.

He hated being looked down upon like that.

But, God, he loved the feeling, the pins and the needles.

Francis bit the corner of his bottom lip, slowly, staring at Alfred while pulling it a bit, with badly masked frustration and dense desire.

Alfred started to fell desperate, “You're cocky. - he said, slowly, his mouth opening and closing almost in little pants – Way too much.”

“My bad.”

Francis smirked, smug, perfect, and Alfred couldn't stop wishing for that smirk over him: as the Frenchman sucked his cock, as he thrust into him ravenously. He felt the tight clench on his stomach descend, like a caress, onto his trousers.

And then he cursed himself.

He curseed himself, he cursed his being made of tides and nerves, of greed and need.

What he hated the most was how Francis had probably, surely, an exact perception of what he was doing, of how desired he was and how much he was overpowering him.

Alfred stuttered a bit, his mouth agape.

Francis chuckled, bitter.

No, there was no escape from being a nation, no savior hidden behind blue eyes – it would have been the same as always.

Dirty souls getting drunk on empty sex.

Nations can't fall in love.

Nations are not allowed to forget who they are and behave like humans, not in serious business, only as a play. A stupid play.

What did Alfred expect of him?

And, whoa, he found himself so sour and bitter about it, for no real reason...

Why would Alfred be any different? Why did the idea of sleeping with him in that way make him so upset?

He thought for a moment it could have been the fact he took care of him for a period, but, no, he realized comparing it to Canada: he couldn't even imagine Canada as a real adult, as a sexual being... but America... Alfred...

But not that way.

Not like the usual.

Alfred's voice got hoarser, trembling, as Francis started staring at his bottom lip intensely.

“W-what's wrong?”

“Nothing. - Francis mumbled, absentmindedly – I wonder what I will find at the end of this drink.”

Alfred gave an embarrassed, low laugh.

“Why don't we go out, so you can breathe fresh air?”

“I can handle my alcohol, kid.”

“You could see the stars.”

“I don't need the sky to see the stars.”

“What does that even mean? Is it a French people thing?”

Francis shook his head, smiling without happiness, but in a tender sadness, veiled by the dark pitch of his breath.

He lived for centuries under those stars, watched them in nights before candles were invented, waited for the dawn in time of horror and pain; he saw those stars and in them found comfort and peace, until they were part of him. Sky and earth met, at last, in the heart of a desperate lonely man.

“Alfred-”

“What?”

Francis pulled him by the tie, so that their faces, mouths, lips met once again. He closed his eyes, waiting for the other nation to follow his lead, and let his tongue slip inside the warm cave.

No, no cave. Kissing Alfred was not that easy.

That mouth was a gorge, it was a chasm. There was no way for Francis not to fall into it and disappear, there, where warmth, taste and scent met, where the softest and most inviting trap had been set for him.

Alfred, who was so similar to him, just without so much passion for culture and for love. Alfred was his stubborn, arrogant and free side... he was the comfort of finding a reflection in the water and really being able to see yourself.

How long has it been since he couldn't recognize himself in the mirror?

After world war two, he thought.

But it was more... he was more. He was a hurricane, shaking his soul from earth and roots.

He was the wind over a vineyard.

He was the scent of roses that haunts the country.

Francis pulled Alfred closer, like he had to melt with him, but too much pressure was not necessary, because Alfred followed him, trying his best to regain a bit of control over the kiss, pushing himself towards and inside the French mouth.

He gave a small bite to Francis' lower lip, making him groan.

As they broke the kiss, they couldn't stop looking at each other, they couldn't bring their eyes to shatter the magnetic contact. The world started and ended in their irises.

Alfred was panting a bit, Francis licked his upper lip eagerly.

“Why don't we go out?”

“To breathe fresh air?” Francis asked, half-mocking him, raising his eyebrows.

Alfred bit his bottom lip and gave him a warning look, “Stop your sass. You know I want you.”

“What an eager young boy.” he put the glass on the counter and, taking his jacket, left with Alfred.

They reached the hotel without a word, silence creeping from the cracks in their personas, masks bleeding anxiety. The moon shone flat and cold.

Alfred stared at Francis’ fingers, as they held a cigarette, bony and skinny. His knuckles were sharp and his veins big and showing, purple as lilacs.

He wished time would never pass, because that clock breaks spells and magic dies in the morning, and he always knew that much. His bones shivered in a winter deeper and thicker than the one of snow icing on the pavements.

Since Francis' lips left his own, his mind kept overlapping his flavour, kept asking for more, whining and crying like a needy slut for more of that sensation of his mouth filled to the edge of pleasure. Francis' kisses made him sick, they made his head dizzy.

Francis looked for the keys of his room and Afred lingered on the door, resting against his elbow, breathing out. Cold attached to his core and it was hard to send it away. His hands trembled.

Francise raised his eyebrows, without looking directly at him, as he just knew him too well. His dark, velvet voice was wet and dense darkness.

“You can still run away from the wolf's bed.”

“You are no wolf. - he looked at Francis – No dog, in general. You're a panther, but all panthers are cats. You can't scare me so easily, I’ve seen you purring and napping.”

“Didn't you also see your beloved brother shrieking in horror as I took away from him the thing he loved the most?”

“His dick?”

“Gory. - he smirked – His pride.”

Alfred entered in the room, kicking the door open, and threw his bomber on the chair of the desk. Francis rolled his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head, and closed the door behind them, putting his own coat on the hanger, nicely.

“Do you want some wine?”

“If I wanted to drink more, I would have stayed at the bar.”

Francis chuckled, almost scoffing, breathing out a thin line of smoke. His neck still held the by then pink signs of old hickeys.

Alfred felt anger riding his veins and went over onto him.

“Kiss me.”

Francis turned, met Alfred's lips and took the space between them, pulling the boy's face against his own, sinking his tongue deep into the ocean of darkness and pleasure in those burning lips. Alfred moaned, grunted, pushed, bringing them both on the bed with a quick move.

Alfred pulled him from the shirt, trying to tear it, keeping Francis’ mouth on his own. The boy's kiss was all over clumsy, messy, he tried to push his tongue and half-failed, nervous. But he tasted like heaven.

And, oh, god, Francis was a lustful, proud glutton.

He pushed Alfred deeper into the mattress, getting back a sigh of pleasure, and started to return the kiss, greedily sucking those intoxicating candied lips, biting the soft flesh. His tongue invaded Alfred's mouth, up to the end of the throat, making him moan in anticipation.

He could feel Alfred's hands running through his curls, pulling his face closer.

Outside, rain rang numb on the asphalt.

Francis kept the boy under his control, torturing him sweetly with his tongue, filling him to the brink, then breaking the kiss for a second and biting his bottom lip, making Alfred whine for more, for more contact and warmth. The pressure of sadness broke their ribcages into a thousand shattered heartbeats.

Alfred panted in Francis’ mouth, moans becoming breathless, eager and greed melting into lusty and needy grunts. He broke the kiss and stared into those eyes, blue as the night.

Francis smiled, smug, yet also shaken. His hair was all ruffled now. He looked even more handsome – Alfred thought – now that he did seem human.

“Don't boss me around, kiddo.”

“I need it, I need it now, cut your crap about kisses and hugs. I don't want that.”

Francis' hand went down, caressing Alfred's crotch through his skinny jeans. The boy moved his legs, arching his hips, putting them closer, offering them to Francis on a silver plate ornamented with shame and desire.

His erection pulled the denim painfully-looking. Francis chuckled and unzipped the jeans and pulled them down, freeing Alfred's tense shaft.

It throbbed, and Alfred flushed, as Francis examined it with a deep chuckle.

Francis' lips against the shaft felt like fire, warm, almost burning, pleasure raging all over him- his tongue ran on it, then courted his balls. Alfred could feel heat pool in his groin, begging to be released already. Francis seemed to systematically avoid the tip for a while, licking, even slightly biting the skin of the length, pumping it to its fullest, while Alfred squirmed under him.

Pleasure rushed through his veins, making his limbs tense, arched, in pain with need.

As Francis' tongue circled the head, courting its collar, Alfred suffocated a curse into his hands, pushing them on his mouth, muffling moans.

“Coming so undone for a blowjob, what a kid.” Francis whispered, his tongue like melted wax painting on Alfred's full veins.

“Shut up...” he wanted to sound intimating, but the roar came out as a plea.

Francis chuckled and licked the tip of Alfred's throbbing dick, pressing slightly on it, sending sparks. Alfred arched his back, moaned loudly, while Francis quickly swallowed the whole erection sucking and bobbing his head up and down. His stubble caressed Alfred's balls, scratching them slightly, while he could feel his head rubbing in Francis' mouth, until the end of it, sucked mercilessly and deliciously.

He screamed.

Francis' mouth was silky and smoldering, pleasure filling Alfred to the bone, rushing through all his body, melting every farce of dignity he could still put on.

His hips shook weakly, feverishly, under Francis' touch, and with a deep, velvet shriek of delight, he fell into pleasure, arching and tightening. He came quickly, with Francis fucking him with his heavenly scorching mouth and swallowing his cum with a feline expression on his smug face.

“You really are a boy.”

Alfred panted, his voice heavy in his thin lungs, “Fuck you.”

“Or, rather, fuck you.” he chuckled, bending again, pumping Alfred's cock again despite his pleas of waiting, his voice cracking in a messy mesmerized mantra of moans and yesses, his head going dizzy under the touch.

Oh, yes, Francis was sweet Marsala wine.

His tongue found Alfred's hole and licked it, circling the soft ring of tender flesh, painting its borders, feeling Alfred's legs shaking against his head, shivers running through them in a storm. Alfred lolled his head back, closing his eyes, as Francis' tongue entered in him, caressing, warm, wet, the walls, feeling the tender sweetness.

He seized Alfred's thighs, holding them, as he sank deeper, making him squirm in delight.

Tasting his sweetness, kissing, licking the greedy softness, he sank his fingers into the boy's squirming legs, as he struggled with lust. Francis let his tongue swirl again, in circles, brushing the eager slit. Alfred squirmed, quivering, coming undone in a wet, burning scream.

Francis' movements on his dick slowed down just before he could come, leaving him with a strangled moan caught between his throat.

“Cruel.” he mouthed.

Francis smiled and Alfred's heart sank between those unprivate sheets.

It was sex: hurt, dirty sex. Sex made of glass, smoke, of pleasure that crawled on windows and melted in the chilly air of the following morning.

They were not Francis and Alfred. They were France and America.

But for once, but for once... for one night in the world, they would have been alone, with masks on their faces, fucking on a bed they would have never seen again and, yet, never forget.

Francis kissed him, slowly, sweetly. Alfred put his arms around his neck and deepened it, letting their tongues meet and entwine. Francis' beard brushed on his skin, tickling him.

He felt he could cry, he felt he could get lost in that night.

Francis' hands on his skin felt like the ghosts of all the love he could have never had and his kisses were so sweet he could feel the bitterness beyond them. They were already dead, they always were.

“Fuck me as if we were mortal.” he panted on the edge of both their burning lips.

Francis' smug smirk left space to a knowingly smile. His eyes shone with a gleam of lust and malice.

The older man pulled a lube bottle out of the hotel room highboy. It was half-empty, but Alfred didn't question it. He put it only on one hand, moving his fingers a bit to warm it up.

With an impatient whine, Alfred moved closer and Francis penetrated him with a first finger, soon followed by a second. The boy's eyes rolled to the ceiling in pleasure, he bit his lips, trying to keep himself from squirming agains those fingers, but he could feel he wanted more. He needed more.

Francis went down on him and started sucking his neck, as Alfred's eagerness didn't allow him to do before, pulling the soft flesh between his lips and staining it with the purple marks of desire. A constellation of bruises and moans tempested the room, Alfred moaning while he could feel his blood rushing both towards Francis' lips and his lower regions.

As the boy was enough distracted, Francis started to move his fingers, first straight, then trying to find that spot that, he knew, would have melted him. His tongue, meanwhile, followed the traces of Alfred's collarbones, kissing them and then sucking the tender flesh on them.

Alfred's breath went broken and shattered. He could feel the heat, the need, the rush.

Francis' fingers moved inside him, tensing, pulling him and yet not enough for him to feel filled, satisfied – just as they brushed against something, he stiffed and his voice went louder, acuter even, like a small shriek.

A grin widened on Francis lips and he returned to touch that spot, first slowly, then quickly – Alfred clenched his teeth, suffocated a moan, shook, arched; Francis took pleasure in memorizing it all, feeding off every reaction and movement. His movements became faster and stronger, as he pushed on the prostate, pressing on it, until Alfred almost jumped in pleasure, screaming a desperate “Please!” and opening his legs.

Francis decided his torment was not enough, added a third finger and started fingering Alfred, leaving him unraveled, his dick pulsating and about to shoot, his balls already painfully swollen, red.

He unzipped his trousers, letting finally his erection out. Alfred stared at it, swallowed, wondering how it would have fit inside him and yet eagerly pleased at the idea of being filled to the brink. No more emptiness.

Francis fisted it slightly, then spread out Alfred's legs, observed the sweet asshole and started to sink into it, slowly. Alfred bit his lips, trying not to scream. The three fingers didn't prepare him not even barely enough, his walls felt as if they were about to be torn, he could feel his muscles resisting the invasion and his prostate begging for it to happen and happen quick and strong.

At every inch Francis pushed in, Alfred squirmed, until he crossed his legs around Francis, in a mute try to pull him closer, deeper. As inside as he could.

Francis' breath, though, betrayed his own arousal. It was thicker, lower, darker. He was also struggling not to be quick, not to fuck Alfred carelessly and as brutally as his cock would have wanted by then. But Alfred's moans got quicker, more desperate, needier and he couldn't keep it anymore.

He held Alfred's hips, sinking his fingers in the delicious Iliac's crest, in the tender young flesh, bruising it and then thrusted into him, strong and deep, until all of him was inside, balls-deep.

He sank into him, deep as a dagger in the heart.

Alfred arched in elation, pleasure riding his spine, electric, flushing through his veins. It was hot, devouring hot and perfect. He was so full, set alight and ignited by pleasure.

Francis held him tight by the hips, thrusting into him again, hitting his prostate again, mercilessly, driving him beyond insane. Alfred came, white sparks wettening their stomaches, but Francis didn't stop, growing bigger, pulling him more and more, so that Alfred became hard again in no time.

His hands wandered on Francis' hairy chest, then on his back, pulling him closer. Sinking nails into his flesh, trenches of red on his skin.

And Francis sank stronger, slamming into Alfred, feeling him so tight, so desperately tight and hot all around his throbbing cock. He felt so good as nothing ever did.

It felt so good fucking him, he was almost pained at the idea he would have to come and finish it, He held on the boy as the ocean holds the shore, over and over, each times the tide brings him back to crash on it.

Feeling Alfred's nails in his skin just made it harder to slow down. He felt so big, as if he was about to break him, to tear that sweet flesh pulsating in pleasure all around him.

Alfred's aroused moans were a balsam poured over his aching heart. His fingers trembled, holding him, sinking deeper, slamming harder, losing all control.

His hair was ruffled, bangs falling onto his face, his expression focused, as he also bit his lips, red in the face, pushing into Alfred.

Alfred writhed, squirmed. He couldn't even feel himself anymore, like his bones vanished. He could just feel his flesh, burning in pleasure, fucked to the core, his prostate being hit over and over at every delightful rock.

Alfred let out a string of lustful moans. Francis sheathed over and over into him, bringing him so close to the edge, Alfred's throath ran dry, his screames became breathless, his hands only weakly holding onto Francis' neck, while at every thrust he bit his lips. It felt insane.

Francis bucketed into him, each thrust hitting Alfred's sweet spot, brushing it, rubbing it, slamming into it, making him break in sharp gasps, his legs twitching, his feet arched as his new orgasm was just on the verge of exploding.

Alfred was still so tight around him, clenching while he was closer and closer – surge of heat, tension rushed through him . The boy's legs shuddered, weak, feverish.

Desire caught him all, every inch of him burning in pleasure.

Francis growled as his own climax started to threaten to arrive, impossible to contain.

He rocked again into Alfred, making him come with a blissful moan, and making him constrict around Francis' shaft. The delicious, insane, pressure melted Francis' control, making him pound into Alfred restlessly in a series of hurried, hard, strong thrusts.

Alfred felt almost pained, his inner skin feeling almost raw with the pleasure just passed, so each bucketing movement felt like an earthquake from his own core.

He shouted a rooted, deep, “Yes.”, while, thightening more and more around Francis, he could feel his breath grow thicker with need.

The Frenchman pounded more into him, until, in a few more strokes, he came, milked dry.

He slipped out, slowly, as the tide leaves the shore, and fell next to Alfred, ready to kiss him again, kissing the ribs and the sweet, rosy nipples.

Alfred laughed, “Give me a moment to rest...”

Francis' eyes seemed soft and smoldring on his skin. Alfred searched repair in those arms, bringing some of the blanket with him, as a shield.

“I don't like the idea... - Francis confessed – What if dawn comes?”

“We'll pretend we didn't see it. - Alfred blinked slowly, hiding his face against France's chest, filling his senses with his strong sandalwood scent – What's a day to us? What a night? Do you even feel them anymore?”

“No...” he admitted, looking at the ceiling, as he held Alfred closer to him to not let him slide.

Alfred couldn't help but let out a whimpering sigh: he was left colder than before.

Before he was just empty, now he could feel his inner walls, his chest, empty and heavy, with ice – ice crept over them.

He fell asleep slowly to Francis' caressing his hair and humming an unknown, yet tender melody he felt as if he had forgotten. He forgot many things. Not much kept being important for centuries.

Francis looked at the time on the clock and sighed, knowing he would have stayed awake, unable to sleep, just in company of the wine on the cabinet and the packet of cigarettes in his reach.

The room was immersed in blue, like a beautiful drowned ghost city.

He didn't want to wake the boy up: Alfred was sleeping on him, blissful smile on his tender dusty pink lips.

Constant desire, haunting solitude and the suffocating need to fill emptiness were not yet so familiar to him as they were to Francis. One day, one day also America would have felt that way, as all of them did, he would have found his own declination of the enigma of eternity.

Maybe it would have been wars, just like to him it was sex or to Italy fun.

One day, Alfred would have become a needed mask in nights spent in pubs more than an occasional distraction.

He lit a cigarette, breathing it in.

He chuckled, bitterly, singing to himself a song of silver spurs and summer wine.

On his lips, a terrible thought appeared and lingered. The words he was on the cusp to murmur a thousand times while kissing.

If they were human, he knew he could have...

 

 


End file.
